That which alights horizon of sweating swevens,

Connecting its bow to rain collected below,

Buttercupping awe across pool’s static still—

Like the grace of a tear running a chinned cheek

As it limns balm upon morbidezza’s fallen face—

Finds, in its terrestrial tattoo, an oneiric offspring,

An iteration of itself as fleeting as a held blink,

Yet sincere enough to assure that it—as ink’s imago—

Holds worth—in space of its breaking, bonding mercy. ; )